


And It Echoes When I Breathe

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Ghost!Jaskier, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, i just want to warn y'all enough, look not that much of it is bad stuff, very proud of this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: "He sighs, turning back around, freezing in his spot as he hears a distant… well, something. He’s not sure what it is, yet, but he keeps quiet, listening for any other sound. There it is, again, and this time he recognizes it as a piano, in the distance, somewhere in this abandoned old building – the sound of the single note echoing through the large halls and many rooms. Again, a note, then a chord, and he cocks his head as whoever is playing starts the song in earnest."Ghosts aren't real. That much Geralt knows. That's why, when he explores the halls of the abandoned Woodward Sanatorium in the hopes of renovating the building, he knows it's not haunted. The toy car in one of the rooms only moves on its own because of the uneven floor. The wheelchair in another room doesn't change positions, he's just remembering things wrong. The shadows he sees out of the corner of his eye are just that- shadows, tricks of the light, his imagination.Yet, even he can't explain the piano music that drifts through the halls of the abandoned building.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 293
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	And It Echoes When I Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I binge-wrote this in like a week, and oh my god, I'm so proud of this one, and I really hope you guys love it as much as I do.
> 
> Title from I Of The Storm by Of Monsters And Men.
> 
> Read the tags, please, but also, the warnings represent only a relatively small part of this fic, so if you really don't wanna read about that stuff, skip the memories. You'll know when you get there.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoy, and please do leave kudos and a comment. (Especially comments, they fuel me so so much and I really wanna know what you guys think of this fic)

His footsteps echo through the empty halls, bouncing off the graffitied walls, breaking the eerie silence of the abandoned building as Geralt walks through it. He’s not someone who’s easily scared – on the contrary, he’s usually the one others find scary – but he can’t help but feel slightly uneasy here. Not because of the supposed hauntings; no, he’s more scared of homeless people that might be squatting in this building, and might attack him at first sight. It’s why he keeps his heavy Maglite lamp in his hand, even though there’s enough light shining through the broken and dirty windows.

This place has potential, he knows it. He can tell it used to be beautiful - gorgeous, even. The many tall windows let in plenty of light, illuminating every dirty corner, every pile of garbage, every speck of dust floating through the air. The ceilings are even taller, and he doubts he could reach them even if he jumped. The floors are made of oak planks, and, though stained in some places, would look absolutely lovely with the proper care. Some of the old wallpaper has peeled away, showing the bricks and plaster beneath. A renovation and some new plaster and white paint would not only make the halls look much more spacious, but would make the light from the large windows bounce around the rooms, adding to the airiness of this building.

As he walks through the old, abandoned halls, he mentally makes a little list of the things that need to be done to make this building not only livable again, but also modern and comfortable. For example, this place definitely needs insulation – only God and the hobos that squat here sometimes know how cold it gets in the winter, how warm in the summer. There’s hardly any electricity here, as well, which is of course to be expected of a building from 1883, but electricity is still very necessary these days. He doesn’t even want to think about how much lead the pipes contain, much less about the structurally less sound parts of this building.

But still, these are all things that can be fixed, with time and money and patience. After all, the Woodward Sanatorium is a historical site in this area and, though abandoned and decrepit, people would hate to see it knocked down and built over. Which is why he’s here, now, checking the place out, making a mental list of things that need to be done to make this place livable and clean and a whole lot less abandoned so that it can be sold as – well, he’ll have to figure that out, still.

Of course, the renovations depend on whether it’s going to turn out a hospital, an apartment building, or a school. But the government will have to make a concrete plan of action, after his first assessment. After that, the real work will start.

Something flits past him out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head, looking into an empty room to his left, Maglite in hand and ready to defend himself. He slowly walks through the empty doorway into the room, garbage and glass cracking under his shoes, clouds of dust sent into the air with every step he takes.

“Hello?” he asks, Maglite held to next to his head, ready to strike. “Anyone here?” It’s quiet in the halls, except for his own footsteps, breathing, and the heartbeat pounding in his ears. He steps through the doorway, head swiveling from side to side immediately. No one there. Just another empty, old room, with high ceilings, peeling wallpaper, and broken, tall windows. He silently curses himself for getting that slightest bit scared, just now, and he wonders what it was he saw out of the corner of his eye. Probably some dust, or a trick of the light, or a bird that flew in through the window and right back out. In the corner, he notices an old wheelchair, probably still left from the time this building functioned as a sanatorium. It’s facing the wall.

He sighs, turning back around, freezing in his spot as he hears a distant… well, something. He’s not sure what it is, yet, but he keeps quiet, listening for any other sound.

There it is, again, and this time he recognizes it as a piano, in the distance, somewhere in this abandoned old building – the sound of the single note echoing through the large halls and many rooms. Again, a note, then a chord, and he cocks his head as whoever is playing starts the song in earnest. He recognizes it, somewhere in a distant part of his mind, but he decides it’s not really worth his trouble to know which song it is, right now.

As quietly as he can, he walks out of the room, moving his head from side to side, trying to determine where the music is coming from, then sets out towards the back of the building. He follows the sounds of the piano through the halls, down the stairs to the ground floor, deeper and deeper into the sanatorium. He tells himself he only wants to find out who’s playing so he can tell them about the upcoming renovations and that they should probably find a different place to sleep if they’re a homeless person, and, if they’re a teen who sneaked in here to ‘investigate’ the supposed hauntings, to get the hell out of here and stop playing around in abandoned, dangerous buildings.

After a while, a memory jogs, and he suddenly remembers the song as Debussy’s _Clair De Lune,_ from the few piano classes his dad made him take when he was younger. Whoever is playing sure knows what they’re doing though, at least more than young Geralt did. The music flows from delicate to powerful to mournfully soft again, like waves lapping at the beach, notes coming slowly, then quickly, then slowly again – and he finds that he hates the fact that he’ll probably have to interrupt the music. Though, of course, it’s for the best. After all, this building definitely isn’t structurally sound in some places, and he’d hate for someone to get hurt because they thought it was safe here.

He makes a mental note to request fencing to be placed around the building, so it’s harder to get in. He’ll probably do that first thing this evening, when he finally gets home. Or maybe he can even make a phone call in the car – the sooner the fences are there, the better.

Finally, he finds himself outside of a rickety, half-rotten wooden door, that might have once been painted white or light blue, though half the paint’s peeled off, and looks more greenish than white, really. It must be one of the last doors still standing in this building. The piano music is loud enough for him to be a hundred percent sure that it’s coming from this room, and he waits for a few seconds, listening, before he puts a hand against the door.

The second he touches the wood, the music stops abruptly. He frowns, holding his Maglite up, before pushing the door open. It creaks ominously, a few flakes of greenish paint falling to the ground and sticking to his skin, a cloud of dust called from the depths of the wooden floors as the door swings open.

He gapes at the room behind it, all thoughts of music and possible squatters forgotten as he looks into what might be one of the most beautiful rooms he’s ever seen – no matter how old and abandoned and decrepit.

It appears to be a dining room, fit for at least a hundred people, maybe even more. Old, half-rotten white sheets are draped over shapeless forms that, after a few seconds of squinting, he can recognize as round tables with chairs around them. The wooden floor is still very much intact, and, though dusty, free of garbage, unlike the rest of the building. But the furniture and the floors isn’t what makes this room so breathtaking – though they certainly do help.

It’s the back wall, or, better said, lack thereof. The room is nearly two stories tall, and the back and side walls are completely covered in almost floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re still fairly unbroken, though there are a few holes here and there, and he can tell that the windowsills and the wood between the panes was once painted white. The back wall isn’t entirely a flat surface, either. There’s a semicircle in the middle, with a door at the base of the windows, granting access to the overgrown and abandoned gardens behind the sanitorium, and in the middle of this semicircle, a few yards in front of the door, stands a grand piano.

 _Aha._ So this is definitely where the music came from, and, as he steps inside and looks around, he can see this is the only door that grants access to this marvel of a room – aside from the back door – meaning that whoever was playing must still be in here.

He raises his Maglite again, from where it had slumped down, and calls out: “Hello? Anyone in here?” He waits for a couple of seconds, eyes scanning the room for any movement, frowning when he finds none. Slowly, he walks further into the room, towards the grand piano. “Hello? I’m a contractor, I’m just here to scope out the building, see what needs to be done. We’re probably gonna start construction soon, just so you know, in case you need to find a different place to sleep…”

Again, no reply, and he’s halfway across the room by now. Still, he hasn’t seen anyone, hasn’t heard a single sound or any movement, and he frowns, nerves on end, Maglite still raised in the air, ready to strike in case he’s attacked.

“Hello?” He calls out again. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.” Still no response.

He’s pretty sure he won’t get one, either, by the time he reaches the grand piano. There’s no one here. He lowers his flashlight, taking a closer look at the piano. Half of its wing is covered in the same type of old, white sheet as the tables and chairs, and it looks like it hasn’t been moved in a while. He frowns, again, when he sees the keys, sees the thick layer of dust on them.

Sure seems like this piano hasn’t been played in a while, either. He reaches out, pressing down on one key, startling a bit at the sudden noise in the quietness of this abandoned building. When he lifts his finger up, a smooth circle in the layer of dust shows where he’s pressed down, where he’s touched the piano. He looks out over the rest of the keys, finds all of them untouched.

 _Strange._ He’s sure he heard the piano music coming from here, and he’s sure it was a real piano. He can definitely distinguish between the sound of a real piano and a recording, and this was definitely no recording. He frowns again, blinks, then shrugs it off. Maybe it was just a recording, after all. Maybe it was someone in the neighbourhood playing piano, maybe it was just his imagination – the mind can play funny tricks on you when you’re alone in an abandoned building too long.

He takes one look at the overgrown garden, and adds it to his mental list of things that need to be done around here. Though, he knows, once that’s done, it’ll really be worth it, and he can’t wait to see the view from this room once everything has been renovated. It sure will be a sight to behold, he knows, and the thought makes him smile slightly.

He turns around, and his breath catches in his lungs again. The wall of the room, where he entered, is, of course, quite large – up to two stories high, almost – and there’s a large mural painted on it, of a large entrance hall, almost like the ones only seen in movies, with the image of two winding, marble stairs to the sides, and a balcony in the middle, chandeliers on the decorated ceiling. The paint is faded and cracked and peeled off in many places, but the image is still recognizable and truly a sight to behold.

He adds renovating that mural to its original state to his mental list of things that need to be done.

For now, he decides enough is enough, and heads towards the exit again. It’s starting to get late, the afternoon winding down to its end, and he should probably go home soon, really. He might come back tomorrow to check out the rest of the building, the parts that he hasn’t gotten the chance to check out yet – after all, the Woodward Sanatorium is a big place, that cannot be explored in less than a day.

He’s halfway across the room, when he looks back one last time, at the grand piano, the last notes of Debussy’s _Clair De Lune_ echoing through his mind. He almost swears he sees the sheet draped over the instrument shift slightly, but he decides it’s probably from the slight breeze blowing through one of the many shattered windows, and turns back around, making his way to the exit.

As he walks through the halls again, he passes the room he saw movement in earlier, and, curiosity getting the best of him, he takes another quick look inside. He frowns when he sees that the old wheelchair is now facing the window, and decides that he must’ve remembered it wrong.

\---

He’s back the next day, just as he had planned, and nods a good morning to the construction workers outside, who are placing the fencing.

Though the noises from outside are almost deafening, it all dims the second the large, white-painted door falls shut behind him – almost completely muting any sound from the outside world. He supposes that was necessary, if mentally ill patients were making a ruckus inside, back in the day. Of course, it wouldn’t be pleasant to walk by this beautiful, imposing building, and hear screaming and shouting. Or maybe they thought it better to completely isolate the patients from the outside world, not even let them hear the people passing by, living their everyday lives while the people in here couldn’t. Whatever the reason, he marvels at the sudden silence, and starts making his way deeper into the building again.

This time, he takes the left wing, instead of the right, walking up and down some of the many stairs, peeking inside some of the many identical, abandoned rooms, Maglite always ready in case some hobo or teenager who’s been searching for paranormal activity tries to attack him.

Yesterday evening, after coming home from work, he’d read up on the history of this place, eating his microwave dinner behind his laptop in his empty apartment, as usual. The Woodward Sanatorium had first been built in 1880, construction had been completed in 1883. It had housed mentally ill patients the first few decades after that, though quickly housing patients of the Tuberculosis epidemic after that. The late 19th and early 20th century, of course, hadn’t been kind to mentally ill patients, and there had been many reports of abuse suffered at the hands of the caretakers, turning this place into a living nightmare, basically. Overall, there were hundreds of deaths reported within these walls, leading a lot of people to believe this place was haunted – which was nonsense, of course – but it had led to a lot of teenagers getting injured in here, due to the structural inadequacy of some of these rooms, in search of the supernatural.

He’s never been one to believe in ghosts and spirits, though, so he’s not afraid to wander these halls alone. And any hobos or teenagers that might attack him, he can handle with his Maglite, obviously.

Yet, he can’t stop thinking about that wheelchair, as he creeps through these halls, the echoes of Debussy’s _Clair De Lune_ still ringing through his mind.

Halfway through the building, he enters one of the rooms to his right. It’s the same as all the other ones, with oak floors, peeling wallpaper, and garbage on the ground. He notices a toy car, among the garbage, and picks it up, holding it up in the light. It’s plastic and old, maybe thirty or fourty years, covered in dirt but still relatively unscathed. He wonders what it’s doing here, in an abandoned building, and figures maybe a homeless family used to stay here, and left it behind. He puts it back down, though – not really sure what else to do with it.

He walks to the window, the reason he came in here in the first place, and looks outside, into the courtyard in the middle of this building. Just like the gardens to the back, the courtyard is overgrown and neglected, though if he squints, he can see some stone paths leading through the vegetation. He’s sure that, with a few good gardeners, this place might be restored to its previous glory.

He looks up when movement catches his eye. He scans all the windows that look down on the courtyard, frowning when he sees another movement. It’s coming from one of the windows on the middle floor of the building, and as he looks, he sees it again. Someone moving away from the window, as if they were looking outside and are now walking away from the glass.

He frowns again. He thought this place was abandoned, and all the squatters had left the premises. And if someone had entered the building, one of the men outside would’ve seen and would’ve told him. Or maybe this someone had entered during the night.

Or maybe it’s the same person who was playing the piano yesterday, maybe someone who never left in the first place, and maybe this building isn’t as abandoned as Geralt thought it was. Either way, he decides to find out – finish exploring this wing, before circling around, past the dining room, to the other wing. And hope whoever it was in that window won’t attack him in the meantime.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

He hears the sound of plastic on wood behind him, almost like wheels rolling, and turns around, frowning when he finds the toy car at his feet. The floor must have a slight slope, here, then, and he decides to bring a level with him, the next time he’s here – see if the planks are uneven only in this room, or in all the rooms lining this hallway.

For now, he steps around the toy car, walking into the hall again, making his way towards the back of the sanatorium again. He stops in his tracks when he hears a familiar sound, echoing through the maybe-not-so-abandoned halls of the building.

It’s the piano again. Just like yesterday, there are a few hesitant, first notes, before whoever is playing starts the song in earnest. Once again, it’s _Clair De Lune._ Geralt starts walking again, this time making his way to the dining room as quickly as possible – though as quietly as possible, as well. He doesn’t want to immediately chase the person playing away to where he can’t find them anymore, but he does need to tell them to leave the premises, or they might get hurt by the more dangerous parts of this building.

Just like yesterday, he finds himself marveling over the skill that the piano is played with, and finds himself mourning the fact that he’ll have to stop the music. Just like yesterday, he pauses a few seconds outside the dining room door, Maglite in hand. He listens intently, and yes, this time he’s absolutely sure it isn’t a recording, and the music is very much coming from within this room.

And, just like yesterday, it stops the second he puts his hand against the door. He pushes it open quickly, not paying mind to the fact that the rotten wood half-splinters when it bounces of the wall.

Strangely enough, he can’t see anyone inside, just like yesterday.

But he’s sure that can’t be possible. There were less than two seconds between the music stopping and him swinging the door open. If someone was truly sitting at the piano, they couldn’t have hidden away so quickly – the nearest tables are too far away, and there’s nowhere else to hide. So Geralt definitely would’ve seen them.

So the logical conclusion would be that there was no one here in the first place. But _that_ doesn’t line up with the fact that he definitely heard music from a real piano coming from this very room.

He frowns to himself, as he starts walking across the floor again, towards the piano, just like yesterday. _What the hell is going on?_

And, just like yesterday, the room is completely abandoned, the piano untouched. Just like yesterday, the sheet draped across its wing shifts slightly, gently blowing in the breeze coming through the shattered windows.

Except there is no breeze. None that he can feel on his skin, anyways.

As he walks back out of the room, an idea starts to form in the back of his head, but he pushes it away, tells himself it’s absolutely ridiculous, and moves on.

Once in the hallways again, he sets out to his left, to the right wing he explored yesterday, and where he saw movement behind one of the windows on the second floor. He stops in his tracks as he walks past a door that was closed yesterday, but is open now. At least, that’s what he remembers – he might very well be remembering it wrong, and maybe he just didn’t notice this room yesterday. He seems to be remembering things wrong a lot lately, and decides to keep an eye on that, in case it becomes pathological, and he has to consider visiting a doctor for it.

Though, as he walks through the doorway, it certainly seems like a room he would remember. It’s pretty big, and, judging by the desks and the filing cabinets in here, this was the main office of the sanatorium. It’s quite clean in here, as well, he notices – certainly compared to some of the other rooms in this building, though everything is covered in a thick layer of dust.

He walks to one of the desks, wiping the dust off one of the files, laying open on the surface. It’s a patient file, he can see, and when he thumbs through the pages, he notices this covers multiple patients. He closes the binder briefly, the cover telling him that it contains all the patients from L to Q in the year 1901. He frowns, as he starts flipping the pages again, pictures of patients staring up at him, their names and general info and reason they were admitted to the sanatorium right next to the photographs.

He wonders why it’s still here, really. The sanatorium was in use for nearly eighty years, fourty or so of those dedicated to treating patients of Tuberculosis – surely they would’ve destroyed the files of the mentally ill patients after a while, right? Because what use would they have for them? And why did they keep it in the main office? Why is it laying open on this desk right now? Though, he supposes maybe someone who went in here once took interest in the mentally ill patients – since those are rumoured to be haunting this facility more than the TB patients – and opened one of the files, leaving it here to gather dust after they left.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight in the sudden cold when a strong breeze filters through one of the shattered windows, and the pages of the file turn in the wind, fluttering slightly when the breeze suddenly stills again.

He cocks his head, taking a look at the page the file landed on. _Julian Alfred Pankratz,_ it says, next to a picture of a young man, looking directly at the camera. He looks slightly disheveled, though mostly bored, really. The page says he was 28 at the time this photograph was taken, and the reason of admission to the sanatorium merely states ‘ _delusions’._ Something tugs at the back of his mind, like a distant memory, a feeling that he should know this Julian, or that he once did know him.

He shrugs it off and walks out of the office, an idea popping up in his mind. He goes back to the dining room, taking his phone, snapping a few pictures of the piano and the glass wall behind it, of the garden, takes the sheet off one of the tables, snaps a picture of the perfectly good, oak furniture underneath. Lastly, he walks towards the piano, turns around, and takes a picture of the mural. Before he exits the room, he takes one more picture of the entire room, including the many tables and chairs, the windows, and the piano in the middle.

After that, he walks back towards the front of the building again, resuming his way. He takes one of the stairs up, towards the second floor, where he saw movement behind one of the windows, earlier, and as he stands in the hallway, he calls out.

“Hello? Anyone here? I saw someone earlier, and I just want you to know, we’re starting renovation soon…”

He walks through the empty hallway, Maglite in his hand, ready to defend himself, but he gets no answer, no sound to be heard from any of the rooms. He calls out again – no response. Finally, he finds the room he saw the movement in, frowning when he notices it’s the one with the wheelchair, the one that caught his attention yesterday, as well. The ancient wheelchair is now standing on the other side of the room, once again facing the window. He tells himself he must’ve remembered it wrong again. He has a harder time believing it, though.

He walks back the way he came, taking the stairs again, finding himself on the top floor of the sanatorium. There are windows in the roof at regular intervals, he notices, letting in more light. He’s sure it could get really warm in here in the summer, but with proper insulation and air conditioning, this floor could be really beautiful, he knows. He walks towards the front of the building. At the end of the hallway, there are no stairs, like on the floors below, but the space is open, bright, with lumpy forms covered by the same old, white sheets as the tables in the dining room – after a few seconds, he recognizes them as couches.

So, this is a little communal area, probably used for reading and playing board games, back in the day. He makes a mental note to keep it that way – of course, with new couches and furniture – but a little communal area, still. There are two large windows, here, one overlooking the street outside, one overlooking the courtyard in the middle of the building. There are no other walls, and it’s accessible from both wings of the sanatorium, creating a connection between the two parts.

To the left of the communal area, there’s a corner room, and he cocks his head, an idea forming in his head that if they break out the wall of this room, they can create another little communal area, maybe a place to watch television together or something – because, clearly, the one that sits to his right isn’t big enough, once this building is fully occupied.

So, he walks to the corner room, determined to find out what’s inside, and if the option to break out the wall is viable.

When he opens the door, three things happen at once – or in very quick succession, at least. Firstly, when the door swings open, he hears a loud noise, almost like a tree falling right next to him. Secondly, something hits him in the chest, hard, sending him flying backwards until his shoulders hit one of the couches and he slumps on the floor, numbness spreading through his chest, to his limbs. Thirdly, the roof of the corner room caves in, and he watches as debris - wood and stone and metal - falls on the floor, sending clouds of dust through the door, into the hall.

He realizes that, if he had stepped through that door, he probably would’ve been buried under the roof of the room. He knows he wouldn’t have made it out of there uninjured, if alive, even. And he wonders how the hell he’s still here, right now.

He touches his chest tentatively, the cold numbness from before giving way for a dull pain, that turns sharp the second he touches his skin. He hisses in pain, and slumps back against the couch that broke his fall. He wonders what the hell happened, really, and why he isn’t buried under two feet of metal and wood and bricks, but it all happened so fast. He figures that maybe the roof didn’t cave in all at once, maybe one part did first, and hit him in the chest, before the rest fell down.

It’s the most logical explanation, at least.

He groans, slowly pushing himself into a seating position, hand on his painful sternum as he sits upright, slumping forward slightly. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, to brace himself, as he holds on to the couch, slowly pulling himself onto his knees, then onto his feet. Once he’s standing again, he takes one last look at the now collapsed corner room, before he starts walking back towards the stairs at the back of the hall, one hand on the wall.

He hears running footsteps up the stairs, then shouting, and before long, he sees some of the construction workers. They all sigh in relief when they see him.

“You alright, sir?” One of them asks. “We saw that room collapse, and we weren’t sure if you were… you know…”

Geralt shakes his head, lets one of them support him, as they walk back to the stairs, one hand still on his painful sternum. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just some bruises and a bit spooked, is all. You should put tape over the door to the corner room on the other side of the building, though, make sure no one enters that one. It might be unstable as well.”

Another one of the construction workers nods, and hurries off to do just that, probably. Slowly, they make their way down the stairs, and after a while, Geralt feels the strength returning to his limbs, the shock wearing off, and he no longer has to lean against the man for balance. Though he does sigh in relief when they reach the ground floor.

“You guys go ahead,” he says, “I’ll be fine.”

The men nod, and cast him one last look, probably to make sure he’s alright, before they make their way towards the front door, chattering amongst themselves. Geralt, on the other hand, goes back to the office, in the right wing of the sanatorium, near the dining room. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to see that patient file again, something tugging at the back of his mind, telling him he has to know this Julian, that he’s seen him before.

He figures it’s just the shock that’s making his mind a little bit garbled, but he obliges anyways, stepping back into the office. He sits down on the desk chair, sending clouds of dust into the air as he does so. He looks at the file again, at the page it’s still open on, the one with Julian’s face staring up at him. His hair is slightly messy, and though it’s hard to see, with the photo being entirely in sepia, Geralt presumes it’s brown. He has a young face, even for someone who’s 28, and Geralt hates to admit it, but he looks quite handsome. He also looks slightly bored, though there’s something in his eyes Geralt can’t quite place – maybe fear? Sadness? He’s not sure.

He doesn’t know why, but he imagines Julian having blue eyes. Something tugs at the back of his mind again.

He takes a deep breath, sighs, and the sharp pain in his chest reminds him of the incident. He decides he’s had enough for today, and gets up, walking out of the office, leaving Julian Alfred Pankratz behind. As he walks through the halls, towards the front door, he hears a distant, hesitant piano note behind him. Another one, and then a chord, as whoever is playing starts _Clair De Lune_ in earnest. Geralt sighs, continuing his path to the front door, ignoring the music behind him, coming from the dining room. He has a feeling that if he does turn around, if he does check out the source of the song, it will stop the second he lays his hand against the door, and he won’t be able to find anyone.

So, he continues down the hall, stopping and listening to the music for a few seconds, as he stands in front of the large, white-painted doors. It really is beautiful, and he would love to stay here a little while longer, but he’s tired, and his chest hurts, and the fact that he doesn’t know who’s playing, still, makes him feel slightly uneasy.

So, he opens the heavy front door, stepping outside. The second it falls shut behind him, the music is dimmed, and he only hears the sounds of construction, as the workers place the last fences around the property. On the street, he looks up at the right upper corner of the building, sees the caved in room, and rubs his chest gingerly, the memories flashing through his mind.

He turns around, heading to his car. He can’t wait to go home and leave this day behind him.

\---

He’s sitting in front of his laptop again, in his silent and empty apartment. He’s drafting the mail to the government, with all the things that need to be done to renovate the sanatorium. His heart sinks to his feet when he sees the long list, though, and he knows it’s very unlikely they will approve the renovation – there’s just too much to do, too many things that cost a lot of time and money – and he knows they’ll probably opt for demolishing the place, building something new on top of it.

But he also knows that what they’d build wouldn’t be nearly half as beautiful as what could be, if they were to renovate the sanatorium. So, he decides to attach the pictures he took this afternoon, of the dining hall, showing the beauty of the sanatorium, and the potential it has.

He connects his phone to his laptop, pulling up the pictures, opening them to check their quality before he’s going to attach them to the mail. He flicks through the photos, once again marveling at the beauty of the sunlight shining through the tall windows, onto the furniture, the quality of the mural, even after all these years, and the potential of the garden behind the sanatorium.

He stops at the last picture, the one that shows the view of the entire dining room from the door. His breath catches in his lungs, heart skipping a beat, before picking up speed to an almost painful level, hands starting to shake slightly, when he sees what he hadn’t seen earlier.

There’s someone sitting at the piano.

\---

The next day he finds himself in front of the sanatorium again, even though he doesn’t need to be here anymore – he’s scoped out the building, he knows what needs to be done, and the mail with the information has been sent. But he can’t _not_ go back, now, with what he saw last night.

His head hurts slightly from the three generous glasses of whiskey he’d poured himself, as he had continued staring at the picture, zooming in, zooming out, trying to find a logical and entirely not paranormal explanation for the figure that was sitting at the piano. Except he couldn’t find one.

He pulls out his phone again, taking another look at a picture he’s memorized by now, half hoping the figure is gone and it was all a bad dream. But no, of course it’s still there. No more than the silhouette of a person, too dark to be a trick of the light, too blurry to make out any defining features, but there nonetheless.

He remembers the haunting piano music that had drifted through the halls of the sanatorium, he remembers the wheelchair that kept moving on its own, he remembers the toy car that had rolled towards him on an even floor, he remembers the figure in the window. And for the first time in his life, he starts to consider believing that there might be a core of truth in all those stories about the supernatural. He wonders if he should be scared, but can’t really find it in himself to be.

The second he opens the heavy, white door, music already drifts towards him, halfway through _Clair De Lune._ As he walks through the halls, he finds himself looking at this place differently, finds himself startling slightly at every little noise and movement, finds himself wondering if the thing he saw out of the corner in one of the rooms just now is simply a trick of the light, a bird, or something else entirely – _someone_ else entirely.

Before long, he’s standing in front of the door to the dining room again. As expected, the second he lays his hand against the wood, the music stops. He opens the door, and once again, he finds the place deserted. At least as far as he can see, he knows now.

He takes a deep breath, gathering his courage, eyes caught on the slight movement of the white sheet draped over the piano in a breeze that’s not there. “I know you’re in here,” he says. “I took a picture yesterday, I saw you.”

Despite the tight fear coiling in his stomach, he walks forward, eyes trained on the piano. “I can hear you play _Clair De Lune_ in here, I’ve heard you play several times.” He stops, halfway across the room. “I know you’re in here,” he repeats.

He waits, for what feels like an eternity, while the silence in the room becomes almost deafening. He’s about to give up completely, when suddenly, there’s a soft sound. A piano key, pressed down gently. He puts his hands up. “I’m going to come closer, if that’s alright?” He waits a few seconds, until he hears the same sound, the same key being pressed down softly, hesitantly.

 _Okay,_ the person behind the piano seems to say.

Geralt nods, before slowly walking forward, eyes trained on the piano, hands still in the air. Eventually, he’s reached the instrument, looks at the keys, at the untouched layer of dust on them.

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, eyes scanning the stool standing next to the piano, of course finding no one there. His eyes snap back to the instrument itself when one of the keys moves down slowly, disturbing the dust only slightly. The soft sound of the note. _Hello._

“Uh… I’ve been here before, you might’ve noticed, over the past few days…” The same note, softly. _Yes._ “I’m a contractor, I’m here to see what we have to do to renovate this place, make it livable again for other people.”

Then, a lower note, at the far end of the keys, loud and hard and angry. Geralt frowns. “You don’t like that?” The same note. _No._

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A note in the middle, not loud, not soft, just… there. _Okay._

He frowns again. “It’s a bit difficult to communicate like this.” Two high notes, right after each other, almost sounding like a laugh. “I’ve got an idea that might make it easier, if that’s okay?”

A high note. _Yes._

He takes out a sharpie from his pocket, that he always keeps in there, in case he needs it on a construction site. “I, uh… I don’t know if you’re sitting on the stool, but can you maybe scoot over?”

Another two notes – a laugh, then a high note. _Yes._ Geralt smiles softly, sitting down on one end of the stool, uncapping the sharpie. He wipes the thick layer of dust off the keys, sneezing when it gets into his nose. Two high keys. A laugh.

He snorts. “Haha, yes, very funny.” He sneezes again. Another laugh. He blinks when he feels something cold in front of his chest, a horizontal stripe of chilled air in front of him, and he figures that must be the person’s arm as they reach across to laugh at him using the piano keys.

He sighs softly, when the cold disappears, the arm retreating. He starts on the left, somewhere close to the middle, writes down the letter A on one of the keys, before B on the next, all the way to Z, 26 keys later. He reaches to the left again, writing ‘NO’ on two of the lower keys, before writing ‘YES’ on three of the higher keys.

He puts the cap back on the sharpie. “There. Better, isn’t it?”

 _Yes._ Then slowly, softly, other keys are being pressed down, spelling two words. _Good idea._

“Thank you,” Geralt says, putting the sharpie in his pocket. “What’s your name?”

_Julian._

He frowns. “Julian Alfred Pankratz?” _Yes._ “So was it you that turned the file to your page?” _Yes._ “Hmm. Nice to meet you, Julian.”

_Jaskier._

“Do you preferred to be called Jaskier?” _Yes._ “Okay. Um… I’m-“

Before he can say it, the keys are already pressing down again. _Geralt,_ they spell out, and he feels something icy in his veins at the sight. The keys start spelling again. _Geralt of Rivia._

He blinks, then frowns. “Just Geralt Rivia. There’s no ‘of’ there. How- how did you know?”

_I know you._

He shakes his head, breath slowly picking up speed, as he starts to panic slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have you been following me?”

_No. I know you._

“What does that _mean?”_

_Do you not know me?_

“No, I d-“ Except, doesn’t he? Ever since he first laid eyes on Julian’s page and photograph, something’s been tugging at the back of his mind, telling him he _should_ know this young man, and that feeling’s only gotten worse since he learned that Julian prefers to be called Jaskier. “I- I don’t think so?”

_We’ve met._

“Where?”

_Another life. Somewhere else._

He sighs softly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sorry.” A few notes without letters, played on the lower part of the piano. It sounds sad.

“So…” he begins, not sure what to say. There are so many things he wants to ask, but he’s afraid to scare Jaskier off. “Are… are you a ghost?” _Yes._ “How long?”

_I don’t know. Long._

“Do you know when you died?”

_Nineteen. One._

“1901?” _Yes._ “So when you were 28? Shortly after that file was made?” _Yes._ “How?”

It’s silent for a while, and, if it hadn’t been for the cold against his left arm, Geralt might’ve thought Jaskier had left. Then: _Window._

Geralt blinks, mind processing it for a second. “You jumped from a window?” _Yes._

“May I ask why?”

It’s silent for another few seconds. _Tired. Hurt._

His mind flashes back to the research he did, two days ago. “Were the doctors hurting you?” _Yes._ “I’m sorry to hear that. That must’ve been hard.” _Yes,_ quieter this time, sadder.

He’s silent for another thirty seconds or so, not sure what to ask next.

“Um… Are you… alone? Here?” _No._

“On the second floor, a wheelchair.” _Yes. Old Man Bergara. Died from TB. Don’t sit in the chair._

Geralt snorts. “Don’t worry, wasn’t planning to. What about on the other side of the second floor? The room with the toy car?”

_Eddie. Seven. Also TB. Just wants to play, be nice to him._

Geralt nods, smiles softly. “Alright, I’ll pay him a visit later, then.” _Thank you._

He frowns. “Maybe we should make a separate key for ‘thank you’.” _Yes._ He takes his sharpie again, writing a ‘TY’ on a key somewhere between Z and ‘YES’. Next to it, after some short deliberation, he writes a question mark, and next to that, an exclamation point.

“There. Better, isn’t it?” _!_

He laughs at that. “So, anyone else in this building?”

_Yes. Shane Woodward. Courtyard. Dementia, thirty years after this building._

Geralt frowns. “Wait, the founder of the Woodward Sanatorium?” _Yes._ “Kind of ironic, isn’t it, that he ended up in the place he built?”

A laugh, then: _yes. Not nice. Stay away. Doesn’t know._

Geralt frowns again. “He doesn’t know he’s dead?” _No._ “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up, though.”

It’s quiet for a longer time after that, Geralt having run out of questions, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward, really, more… comfortable. Pleasant. Calming. He doesn’t really understand where people get the idea that ghosts are evil from – really, Jaskier’s only been nice to him, and even Woodward can’t be that bad, right?

He sighs deeply, frowning slightly at the pain in his sternum, and he remembers yesterday, when the corner room had collapsed and he had narrowly survived after being flung back by… well, something.

“Was it you?” he asks. “Yesterday, when that roof came down, was it you that pushed me back?” Silence for a few seconds, then softly: _yes._

Geralt smiles softly, reaching his hand out, pressing down on the ‘thank you’-key. Jaskier presses down the !-key, but only quietly, and Geralt figures that must mean _‘you’re welcome’._

He yawns, and suddenly he realizes his lack of sleep is catching up to him. He looks up, sees the sky turning pink and purple through the large windows. He sighs. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Three notes on the lower end of the piano. It sounds sad. Then: _I missed you._

He frowns. “Don’t you mean that you _will_ miss me?”

_No._

He sighs. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

_Yes. Please._

He nods. “Alright, see- talk to you tomorrow, then. Bye, Jaskier.”

_Bye, Geralt._

He stands up, making his way towards the exit, as the first notes of _Clair De Lune_ start playing behind him, and he smiles softly, before he walks out of the dining room. The music follows him down the hall, as he climbs the nearest staircase. He passes Old Man Bergara’s room on the second floor, and leans against the doorframe. The wheelchair is in front of the window, now, facing the courtyard.

“Goodnight, Mr. Bergara,” he says, and the wheelchair turns a slight bit. He can almost imagine Old Man Bergara looking over his shoulder, nodding a goodnight back, and he smiles, continuing down the hall, taking the stairs to the ground floor at the front of the sanatorium. He stands by the large, white doors for a few seconds, listening to the music that still floats through the halls, and he smiles again, before opening one of the heavy doors, the sounds of the piano dimming into nothingness the second it falls closed again behind him.

\---

When he checks his mail at home, he sees one from his higher-ups. The project for the sanatorium has been rejected – there’s too much to do, and it would cost too much money and time and patience, none of which the government has, according to them.

He slumps in his chair. On one hand, he’s sad that the vision he had in mind will never be realized, but on the other hand, Jaskier seemed very opposed to the idea of the sanatorium being renovated. So he does have some mixed feelings about this. Maybe they can talk about it tomorrow, but for now, there’s not much else he can do, really. Once it’s rejected, it’s rejected, and that’s basically the end of it – unless they decide to knock down the building completely and build something new in its place. He wonders what’ll happen to Jaskier and the other ghosts, then, and he decides he doesn’t want to think about it too much.

For now, he tries to find out as much as he can about the Woodward Sanatorium. He knows about the basics, of course, but what he wants to know is what really transpired there between the opening and, say, about 1901, wants to know what horrors happened there.

He finds a few news articles from the 50’s about it, about the ongoing trial against a then-90 year old Dr. Keith Murphy, who was in charge of the staff of the Woodward Sanatorium from its opening to 1910. The article doesn’t detail much, but simply states that he would surely be sentenced for abusing the patients, that there was an overwhelming amount of evidence against him, and that he would likely die in prison. That’s about all it says, and he groans in frustration at the lack of information.

He wants to know, wants to know what happened to Jaskier that lead him to jump out of a window, wants to understand the hurt he went through, wants to help him work it out, forgive and forget the past. Maybe then he can move on. Because Geralt cannot imagine it’s very pleasant to have to live in a decrepit, old building for all of eternity, doomed to be alone and reminded of all the hurt in your life, day in, day out.

He finds a local library that claims to have more news articles from that time period, that can be scanned and sent through email on request. So Geralt does just that – right before he goes to bed, he sends them an email, asking for articles about the Woodward Sanatorium from its opening to now.

When he finally goes to sleep, all he can think about is a grand piano spelling out his name.

\---

The next morning, he sends his boss an email, saying that, for the first time in years, he’s taking a vacation. It’s only two weeks, but it’s more free time than he’s had in a long while. He’s just never really had the chance to spend it on something other than work, but he knows he can’t bring himself to stay away from the sanatorium for now.

On the way to the sanatorium, he puts on _Clair De Lune,_ smiles at the memories the song brings, though he finds that he prefers it when Jaskier plays it for him.

It’s silent in the sanatorium when he opens the large, white door, the sound of the wind blowing through the trees outside dims as it falls shut behind him. He knows he’s not alone, though, and calls out: “Good morning!” Of course, he doesn’t get an answer, but he didn’t expect any in the first place. He does decide to ask Jaskier later if ghosts can talk to the living, or whisper at the very least – after all, he’s heard so many stories about people in abandoned and supposedly haunted buildings hearing whispers. But that’s for later.

For now, he walks up the stairs, to the second floor, and takes the left wing of the sanatorium. He stops just outside a room to his right, with a floor that he now knows isn’t sloping. He smiles when he sees the old toy car in the middle of the room. He knocks on the doorframe, making sure to alert little Eddie to his presence, though he supposes it’s hard to not notice a large man standing in the entrance to your room – but he does it, still, just to be safe.

“Eddie?” he asks, smiles when the toy car moves slightly from side to side – Eddie’s here. “I’m Geralt. I met you two days ago, but I didn’t know you were here. Sorry for not playing with you then. Can I play with you now?”

He waits for a few seconds, but the toy car remains still, and he’s about to give up and walk away when he suddenly feels something cold against his left forearm, drifting downwards, into his palm. He smiles again. It feels like a child is holding his hand, trying to drag him into the room.

“Okay, alright,” he says, grinning from ear to ear like a madman, as he follows the cold spot in his hand towards the toy car, sitting down on the floor cross-legged. He waits for a few seconds, as the cold spot disappears, and he figures Eddie must be sitting opposite him. He reaches out for the car, stopping a few inches away, looking up to where he hopes Eddie is. “May I?” he asks.

When he doesn’t get a response in the form of cold spots or something moving, he takes the car, driving it around in circles on the oak floor, finding himself making little ‘brr’-noises. Somewhere in the distance, _Clair De Lune_ starts playing. He thinks he might be imagining it, but it’s almost like the sun shining through the broken window is a little bit brighter, the room a little lighter, and he hopes that means that Eddie is having a good time.

After a few minutes, he feels a cold spot on his wrist, and he smiles softly, letting go of the car. “Alright, your turn.” He watches as the toy car starts moving again, seemingly on its own – though he knows that means little Eddie is playing with it. After a few minutes, the piano starts fading into silence again, and he wonders if Jaskier is waiting for him – probably, he supposes.

He smiles softly, a quiet wave of sadness washing over him. “Hey, buddy, it’s been fun, but… I have to visit the others as well. I’ll be back tomorrow, alright?”

The car stops and he feels a cold spot on his arm, the sunlight in the room dimming a bit, as if a cloud has passed in front of the sun. “I know, I don’t wanna go, but Jaskier’s gonna miss me if I stay here too long. I promise I’ll be back, alright? I promise.”

The toy car starts moving again, and he stands up, watching for another second, before walking out of the room. He stops at the door, turns around. “See you tomorrow, Eddie.” He turns back around, walking into the hall, taking the stairs down at the back of the sanatorium.

The dining room is empty, as usual, but it almost seems like the sun is shining through the two-story windows a little brighter than before. “Morning, Jaskier.”

A soft note on the piano. _Good morning._

“Sorry I’m late, I visited little Eddie first. He seems nice.”

A few high notes, a little, sweet melody, and Geralt figures Jaskier’s happy.

He sits down on one side of the bench, feels a cold spot against the side of his left arm. _I missed you,_ Jaskier says.

Geralt smiles. “I missed you, too. I was wondering, earlier – can you talk? In a way that I can hear it, I mean.”

 _Yes._ It sounds a little sad. _But costs a lot of energy._

Geralt nods. “I understand. Is it okay if I ask more… ghost-related questions?”

_Yes. Go ahead._

“Can you walk through walls?” _Yes._ “So you can leave this room? And the others can leave theirs?”

 _Yes, but-_ It’s quiet for a while. _Tiring. Costs energy, regain energy in own room._

“So why this room? Why are you in this one and not where… you know…”

_With the window?_

“Yes, why this one, why not that one?”

_Emotional connection. Always played the piano here, only place I didn’t feel bad. Window was just a random spot._

“I see. And I suppose Eddie’s room is the one he stayed in, then?” _Yes._ “And Old Man Bergara, is he tied to the chair or to the room?”

_Both. Best is chair and room, but can leave room in chair without getting as tired as we do._

“And Woodward likes the courtyard, then?” _Yes._

“And why… why only the four of you? Surely, a lot of people died here, why did the four of you stay?”

_I don’t know._

“And…” He suddenly feels sad, voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you _want_ to stay?”

 _No._ Then: _Yes._

“Do you want to leave?”

 _Yes._ A few seconds of hesitation. _No._

It’s quiet for another few seconds, a cloud shifted in front of the sun, and suddenly he feels cold. “Is it that you want to leave but you’re scared about what comes next?”

 _Yes._ He can almost feel the slight relief Jaskier’s spirit exudes next to him, but he might also just be imagining it.

_People who commit suicide go to hell, everyone told me._

They’re both quiet for a while. “But you did it anyways.” He’s not accusing, of course not, but he does realize how it truly testifies for the fact that Jaskier must’ve been mistreated horribly here. He doesn’t get an answer, but he knows Jaskier’s still there, right next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it, about what they… did… to you?”

He gets his answer immediately. A loud and angry and resounding _‘No’._

He startles slightly. “Okay, alright, I understand. We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

It’s quiet for another minute or so, and Geralt looks to his side, at the large mural on the other side of the dining room. A few notes catch his attention again, and he notices Jaskier is playing a little melody, soft and sweet and sad. Then: _Sorry._

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

_I scared you._

Geralt smiles, shakes his head again. “No, you didn’t. You could never scare me.”

_You’re the first._

He snorts. “So I assume that means you’ve scared away plenty of people, then?”

 _Shadows can be explained. Music cannot. It scares them._ It sounds sad, and Geralt wishes he could reach his arm out, close it around Jaskier’s shoulders – but he knows he would only find cold air.

So, he stays quiet, as Jaskier eventually starts to play the melody from before again.

Eventually, he asks: “Do you miss it?” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Being alive, I mean. Do you miss it?”

_I only missed you._

Geralt frowns at that, until he remembers the ‘other life’ Jaskier told him about yesterday, and the page in the file, that stated the young man was admitted to the sanatorium for delusions. He supposes that maybe Jaskier imagined this other life, and that Geralt just happens to look like one of the people Jaskier thinks he knows. That doesn’t really explain how he knew Geralt’s name, but maybe Jaskier just heard him say it one point or something. He decides to play along for now, though, even if he doesn’t believe it – he just doesn’t want to chase Jaskier away.

“Can you tell me about the other life?”

The sun shines through the windows a little brighter. _I was a bard. You were a witcher. I followed you around, singing your praises._

Geralt frowns again. “What’s a witcher?”

_Enhanced human. Kills monsters._

“What kind of monsters? Like… the serial killer kind or…?”

_Like wraiths and ghouls and sirens._

He can’t really hold his disbelief in at that. “Jaskier, those aren’t real.”

 _They were in that life._ It sounds a little harsher than usual, almost defensive.

“But…” he sighs softly. “Alright, uh… how- how does it end? The story- that life?”

_I got killed by bandits on the side of the road._

“And I?”

_I don’t know. Wasn’t around to see that part._

Geralt feels as though Jaskier is holding back, isn’t telling him something, something important, but he decides not to ask about it. “And have you, like… remembered this since childhood, or…?”

_Remembered when I turned eighteen. Told my parents. Got sent here._

“I’m sorry to hear that. So you were a musician in this other life?”

 _Yes._ He plays a short melody, one that Geralt’s never heard before, but makes something tug at the back of his mind again.

“What was that?”

_Toss a coin to your witcher. A song I wrote in the other life._

“It’s a nice song.”

Two high notes. A laugh. Then: _Thank you._

He smiles softly. “You’re welcome.”

It’s quiet for another minute or so, and Geralt watches as Jaskier plays a few random chords. He looks up when the sunlight starts fading again – though this time it has nothing to do with emotions, as it might have the other times. The sun is starting to set, the days growing colder, the nights longer, and Geralt shivers involuntarily in the cool the breeze that comes through one of the broken windows. Jaskier stops playing.

“It’s time for me to go again, I think,” he whispers.

 _I know._ It’s soft, as if Jaskier is whispering it back, and the thought comforts Geralt, for some reason.

“Right… Goodnight, then. See you tomorrow.”

_See you tomorrow. Goodnight, Geralt._

He smiles, and stands up, walking across the dining room back to the door. When he’s halfway there, he hears a few notes on the piano – not a song, but like the words Jaskier spends all day typing out. He turns around, but can’t see the keys of the piano to read the sentence. He does recognize a few letters, though – like the lowest, A, and E and D, played right after each other. He hadn’t even realized he’d come to recognize some of the notes and the letters attached to them, but for now, as the sentence ends, he decides it doesn’t really matter.

 _Clair De Lune_ starts playing again, and Geralt turns back around, closing the door to the dining room behind him.

He says goodnight to Old Man Bergara, just as he did yesterday, and makes his way towards the exit. The sounds of the piano dim as soon as the heavy, white-painted front door falls shut behind him, and he finds himself missing the music – for what quite possibly might be the first time in his life.

\---

There are two mails that catch his attention when he gets back home and opens his laptop. The first is from the library, with the news articles about the Woodward Sanatorium from 1880 to the latest, about a decade ago, attached. He sends a mail back thanking them and makes a donation on their website.

The second mail is from his boss, granting him the two-week vacation and informing him that the government has decided it’s for the best if the Woodward Sanatorium gets demolished, and an apartment complex built on top of it. He feels his heart sink to his shoes, when the words really, truly settle in his mind.

They’re going to destroy the sanatorium. What’s going to happen to Jaskier and the others when they do? Will they get a one-way ticket to the afterlife? Or will they be forced to stay there, their energy slowly draining as they can no longer stay in the room they are bound to, slowly growing more and more tired until… well, until what? Jaskier didn’t tell him what happens if their energy is sufficiently drained. Will they move on, after all, or will they be forced to be unbelievably tired for all of eternity, or will they go somewhere else? Somewhere even more in between the worlds, some sort of purgatory?

Either way, he doesn’t want to find out. They can’t demolish the Woodward Sanatorium – he can’t let that happen, can’t do that to Jaskier, to little Eddie, to Old Man Bergara, hell, even to Woodward himself. Sure, the man might’ve built the place that would later become a living hell for so many people, but even he doesn’t deserve that kind of fate – he was just the architect, after all.

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking for a few seconds, before he sends a mail back, asking his boss if he knows how long it’ll take for the government to fully authorize the destruction of the Woodward Sanatorium, and when they’re gonna be there once they do.

After that, he starts searching around a bit, an idea forming in the back of his head. Sure, it might not work, and even then perhaps not in the way he hopes it will, but it’s always worth trying, isn’t it? He just needs enough time, before the government gets there, he needs to slow the destruction of the sanatorium long enough to… well, to what? He supposes it’s for the best, if his plan doesn’t work, for Jaskier and the others to move on, to the afterlife. But that’s only if his plan doesn’t work.

He starts searching around online. Fairly soon, he finds the National Register For Historic Places, that contains an overview of the steps that need to be taken for the preservation and restoration of historic places. He can’t help but smile as he sees that the Woodward Sanatorium fits the criteria to be deemed a historic place – though there’s a lot more work that needs to be done if he wants to keep the government from demolishing the sanatorium.

He bookmarks the page, and decides to get started on it tomorrow – there’s no use in sending a bunch of emails in the middle of the night. No one will reply, anyways. Still, there’s a new hope sparked in his mind, but there’s also an underlying realization that he’ll probably need to tell Jaskier about this as soon as possible. After all, he really seemed against renovations, and the sanatorium will need to be renovated – either to its original state, or for another purpose. But if the choice is between having to break the news of renovations to Jaskier, or the news of a demolishment, then the choice is made fairly quickly.

He opens the mail from the library again, downloading the attachments. The first few news articles seem fine, nothing out of the ordinary, honestly – they’re mostly about the construction and the grand opening of the sanatorium in 1883. After that, there’s nothing for a few decades or so, until 1912, when a news reporter spent a few weeks in the sanatorium undercover as a patient, and unveiled the horrors that transpired there. The article says the whole story would be printed the next day, but already gives a slightly nauseating summary – neglect, abuse by the hands of staff, mostly, both mental and physical, sometimes even sexual. “And more!” the article states, almost cheerily, as if hundreds of people haven’t been subjected to borderline torture.

Hundreds of people, including Jaskier, he realizes, as the article says these inhuman practices have been going on for decades in the sanatorium, almost from the moment it was opened. _No wonder he jumped out of that window –_ a stray part of his mind thinks, and he feels a heaviness on his chest.

Still, he clicks to the next file, and there it is: the reporter’s complete experience. He almost stops himself, almost closes his laptop – after all, he’s not sure if he really wants to know all the details of what happened, and it almost even feels like he’s invading on Jaskier’s privacy. Because Jaskier didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want him to know, so it feels wrong to be sort of going behind his back and finding out the gist of it anyways.

Still, he can’t stop himself, as he starts reading. He regrets it pretty soon after that, because he can’t stop imagining Jaskier in these situations, can’t stop imagining how he must’ve felt – alone, hopeless, scared – while he suffers at the hands of the people who should be helping him get rid of the delusions. Yet, he still doesn’t stop reading, no matter how much it pains him to keep going, reading about the reporter’s torturous weeks there – while Jaskier spent ten years of his life there, Geralt suddenly realizes. After all, he told Geralt he was admitted to the sanatorium when he was eighteen, and he died in 1901, when he was twenty-eight.

 _Ten years of abuse._ He almost can’t fathom it, really. No wonder Jaskier didn’t want to talk about it, no wonder he jumped out of a window, even though he thought he would go to hell for it. Because really, no hell can be as bad as the Woodward Sanatorium between 1883 and 1920 – when the first TB patients were admitted there and the mentally ill patients were transferred to a different hospital.

He sighs, quickly flipping through the rest of the articles, most of them about the reporter’s experience and the government apologizing for it and promising to do better in the future – though by that time, it was already too late for so many people, including Jaskier. More articles about the transfer of the mental patients and the influx of TB patients due to the epidemic, after which it’s quiet for a while, until the closure of the Woodward Sanatorium in 1960. After that, there are only a few more articles, mostly about paranormal investigators who’d gotten hurt in the unstable building, and another one chronicling the horrors of the sanatorium again for the building’s 100-year anniversary in 1983. After that, one more article in 2010, where the local community leaders tell the paper that they’d love to have the building renovated and maybe refurbished into something new, but that they don’t have the resources and the information needed to do so.

 _Oh, now that’s interesting._ Maybe, if he can get the sanatorium on the historic places-list, he can ask the community for support and funds for its renovation – both things he needs to save the building. He decides to start doing that tomorrow, as well, though that does mean he’ll have to work from the sanatorium – after all, he promised Jaskier and Eddie that he’d be back, and this thing will surely take up his entire vacation – he needs the time. He hopes they’ll understand, though.

It’s already past midnight, he notices, and he wipes his hand over his face, tiredness overtaking him. He should really go to sleep, get up early in the morning, get some groceries, as well – he’s out of microwave meals.

But when he falls asleep that night, he is plagued by nightmares of Jaskier in a straightjacket, bruises on his face, fear in his bright, blue eyes, of Jaskier standing in a windowsill, the wind whipping through his brown hair, determination on his features, of Jaskier, broken and bloody and bruised on the ground, of Jaskier, forced to spend decades roaming the hallways where he suffered for ten long years, alone and tired and lonely, nothing but a grand piano to keep him company.

\---

The next day, he’s back at the sanatorium, as promised, though this time with his laptop and a plastic bag. Once again, he shouts his good morning to the not entirely empty halls, when movement catches his eye through the window in the door that leads to the courtyard, opposite the heavy front doors. He frowns, sets his things down against the wall – after all, no one will steal it here – and walks to the door to the courtyard, opening it.

“Hello?” he calls out, suddenly remembering what Jaskier told him a few days earlier. “Mr. Woodward?”

He startles when he hears a whisper in his ear. “Get out.”

He steps to the side, looking around the overgrown courtyard, of course finding nothing but air and plants and barely visible walkways. “Mr. Woodward?”

Something shoves against his chest and he stumbles a few steps back, numbness spreading across his skin, and he hears another disembodied “Get out!”. There is no longer any sunlight, he notices.

Another shove against his chest, and his back meets the brick wall. The message that he isn’t welcome here is loud and clear, and he hurries to the door, shutting it firmly behind him. Jaskier had warned him that Woodward was unfriendly, but he hadn’t realized the extent of the man’s animosity. He’ll probably need to fix that if he wants to get this building renovated – no one will want to buy a place where you can’t step into the courtyard without getting attacked, after all.

He sighs, picking up his stuff, taking the stairs to the second floor. He knocks on the doorway to Eddie’s room, and the toy car that had previously been moving stills. “Good morning, Eddie,” he says, crouching down on the floor next to the toy car. “I’ve brought you something.” He opens the plastic bag, taking out a toy car he bought this morning, along with his groceries. He sets it down on the floor. “There, now we can play together at the same time.”

The sun shines through the broken window a little brighter, and he can tell Eddie likes it. “I don’t have a lot of time today, though, so I can’t stay too long. Sorry about that.” The light dims a little again, though not a lot, and he figures Eddie doesn’t mind too much.

\---

He walks out of Eddie’s room half an hour later, when _Clair De Lune_ starts playing again. It doesn’t stop when he walks into the dining room, and he sits down on one of the chairs, waiting for the song too end. When it’s done, it’s quiet for a while, and he figures that Jaskier is waiting for Geralt to join him on the piano bench – so he does.

“Good morning, Jaskier.”

_Good morning._

He sighs. “Look, I’ve got work to do today, and I’m sorry about that, but I wanna stay here in this room, if that’s okay with you.”

_Okay. I understand._

It sounds sad, though, and Geralt sighs again. “It’s nothing personal.” _Except it is,_ he thinks _. It’s entirely personal and I’m only doing this for you and the other ghosts._ “But it needs to be done – after all, I’ve still got a job.” He’s suddenly glad he didn’t tell Jaskier about the two-week vacation – his job a perfect excuse as to not rouse any suspicion.

_I understand._

He suddenly remembers earlier that morning. “Oh, I also visited Woodward. He wasn’t too happy to see me.”

_I know. I could feel his anger all the way to here. Not a smart thing you did._

He smiles. “I know, I just had to find out how bad it was for myself.”

 _Well, you did. Congratulations._ Somehow, Jaskier manages to make it sound sarcastic and Geralt can’t help but scoff out a laugh.

“Well, thank you.” He sighs, taking his laptopbag again. “Alright, I best get to work.”

_Okay. Good luck._

He smiles. “Thank you.” He gets up and walks over to the nearest table, pulling off the white sheet, sitting down on one of the chairs.

He opens his laptop, sets up his phone as a wifi hotspot, and gets to work. He fills out the application form for the National Register of Historic Places, while Jaskier starts playing _Clair De Lune_ again. He snorts and looks up. “Is that the only song you know how to play?”

Jaskier slams his hand down on some of the lower keys, which Geralt supposes means something along the lines of ‘rude’ or ‘fuck off’, though it holds no real malice, and the light in the room remains unchanged.

He shrugs, turning back to the application form. “Alright, I was just asking.” After a while, Jaskier starts playing again, a different song this time, and Geralt can’t help but smile at it.

After he’s done with the application, he drafts a mail to the local community, telling them who he is, that he’s hoping to get the building renovated, and that he needs their support, or else the sanatorium will be destroyed within a few weeks.

After that, he sends a mail to the government’s Historic Preservation Office, and to a local historic group. The site he’s using as a guide also informs him that a contractor will be needed, and he blesses all his lucky stars that he doesn’t need to find one anymore. What he does need is funding, and a purpose to give to the building, neither of which he has yet, thought the Historic Preservation Office might help him with part of the funding, and the historic group might have some connections.

Which leaves him with the question of what the future purpose of this building could be. He sighs, rubbing at a certain spot on his forehead that’s starting to hurt. Maybe a school? No, the rooms are too small for that. A hospital, perhaps? The wooden floors aren’t really fit for that, though, and he’d hate to see them replaced with linoleum or tiles.

A nursing home. He sits up straight, as he considers the option. Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? There are a lot of not-too-small bedrooms, there is a courtyard and a garden, there’s a dining room, there is a communal area on the third floor, there are shared but separate bathrooms, and there’s an office for administration. It’s perfect. And he figures that maybe elderly people won’t mind the spiritual activity so much, as long as things are peaceful. Sure, he’d have to pacify Woodward, somehow, but he’ll figure that out eventually.

He smiles when he sees that he got a mail back from the community leaders, telling him that they’re very excited and would love to work together with him on this project. He sends a mail back with his plans to make it a nursing home and asks if they know of a way to secure more funding for this.

They reply back pretty soon after that. They love the idea of making it a nursing home, since they needed one in the area anyways, and they tell him that they’ll set up something where local families can make donations, since a large part of the community cares about saving this building. He replies with a quick ‘thank you’.

He gets another mail, after that, though this time from the Historic Preservation Office, saying that they’ll look into the building’s file he sent through, and that they’ll let him know within the week if they’ll grant the project funding. He gets a similar mail from the National Register of Historic Places.

He figures now is a perfect time to send his boss an email with his plans to save the sanatorium, and he asks him if he can alert the instances that are looking into the demolishment of the building. He gets a mail back pretty soon after that telling him that the proper instances have been notified, and that the demolishment of the sanatorium has been put on hold for at least a few weeks, until he gets a response from the National Register and the Preservation Office.

So that’s that. The plan is now off the ground and pretty soon he’ll know if he can save the sanatorium or not. Which only leaves him with one more thing to do.

“Jaskier?” The piano music stops abruptly. “I need to tell you something.” The light dims a little in the room and suddenly he feels a bit cold. He doesn’t move to sit on the piano bench, though – he needs to be able to tell this story in one go, without being interrupted. And maybe he also fears Jaskier’s reaction, but that’s besides the point.

“You remember how I’m here for the renovation of this building, right?” Silence. The light dims further. “Well, the project was denied.” The room brightens. “Instead, they’re planning on demolishing the building. But-“ he continues, even as the sunlight grows weaker again “I’ve got a plan to save this building. But… it’ll need to be renovated, still.”

Silence, ear-shattering, deafening silence. It’s dark in the room, almost like it’s about to rain, and goosebumps raise along Geralt’s arms. Jaskier’s definitely not happy about this. Which means he’s definitely going to hate what Geralt’s going to say next.

“I’m going to try and turn it into a nursing home and I need your blessing.”

He startles when almost the entire lower half of the piano keys smash down suddenly, creating a loud sound that reverberates in his bones, deep and angry.

He stands up. “Jaskier, I know you don’t like a renovation, but they’re gonna demolish the building if I don’t do this.”

The same sound, loud and angry and refusing, a clear ‘no’.

He threads his hands through his hair, his own frustration growing, as the light almost dims to nothing in the room, a cold, hard breeze blowing through the broken windows, though he knows it’s not coming from outside. “Dammit, Jaskier! If you want to go down with this building, be my fucking guest, I don’t give a shit, but I’m not letting you drag Eddie and the others down with you!”

He points an accusing finger at the empty piano bench, and it falls onto its side, as if Jaskier’s just knocked it over in an angry huff as he stood up. Jaskier smashes both his hands down on the lower keys of the piano in anger again.

“I’m saving this building with or without you, Jaskier, and if you don’t fucking like it, then move on! Go to hell or wherever you’re goddamn destined to go, I don’t give a shit!” He’s lying. He _does_ care. A lot, actually, but the anger and frustration are putting words into his mouth that aren’t supposed to be there.

This time there’s no answer from the piano, but a hard push against his chest. Then, whispered: “Leave.”

He frowns, hands instinctively coming up to the cold spot on his chest. “No!”

The room darkens even further, and he can barely see anything. Another push, harder this time, then: “Leave!”

He grinds his teeth together, staring into the empty air, before he grabs his stuff. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go, but don’t fucking expect me to come back, _Julian._ ”

He turns around, resolutely walking out of the room, through the halls, through the front door. He blames the tears in his eyes on the sudden sunlight shining down on him when the heavy, white-painted front door falls closed behind him.

\---

A few days later, the sanatorium is put on the National Register of Historic Places. The day after that, the Historic Preservation Office approves his application and gives partial funding of the project. The community leaders set up a donation page and ask him to do an interview for the local paper. Geralt turns down the offer, says that he’s no good in social situations, which is true, but not the real reason he’s saying no.

The true reason, is that he’s lost his passion for the project. He’s lost his passion for anything, really, and spends his days sitting on his couch, looking at the blank tv screen, as his last moments in the sanatorium replay in his head over and over and over. Again and again, he can hear the loud slamming of the piano keys, again and again, he sees the light in the room dim in front of his eyes, again and again, he hears Jaskier’s voice in his ears, telling him to leave. Again and again, he hears that loud, definitive slam of the heavy front door behind him.

When he’s not thinking about the few minutes everything went downhill, he’s not really thinking at all. He lives the bare bones of his life on autopilot, gets up at 7 every morning, eats breakfast, brushes his teeth, checks his mail, sits on the couch, eats lunch, sits on the couch, eats dinner, takes a shower, brushes his teeth again, goes to bed – all while blankly staring ahead, as those last moments play in his head like a broken record.

He can’t deny he misses Jaskier. He can’t deny he misses Eddie. He can’t deny he misses the sanatorium. He can’t deny he misses having a purpose. He can’t, and he doesn’t even try to anymore, as he sits on the couch, waiting for the next task on his very short list of day-to-day activities as the minutes and hours tick by. No Jaskier. No Eddie. No sanatorium. No purpose.

How long has it even been?

He looks at the clock. Four days, three hours, and twenty-six minutes. He despises himself for knowing that.

He looks at the tv again, at the blank screen. _Keys being smashed down. The light dimming. Jaskier’s voice telling him to leave. The door slamming shut behind him._ On the mantelpiece below the tv, a picture of his childhood cat, Roach, shifts. He doesn’t pay any attention to it.

 _Keys being smashed down. The light dimming. Jaskier’s voice telling him to leave. The door slamming shut behind him._ The picture frame shifts again, slowly topples off the side of the mantelpiece, smashes on the ground.

He looks at the clock. It’s 7 pm. Time for the next thing on his day-to-day list. He sighs, gets up and goes to the bathroom. He keeps his shower short and hot to a slightly uncomfortable degree. The cold would just remind him of the dining room, of the light dimming, of Jaskier’s voice telling him to leave, of the door slamming shut behind him. Not that it’s _not_ still playing in his head over and over again.

He steps out of the shower, dries off, puts the towel around his waist. He walks to the sink to brush his teeth, looks up at the fog-covered mirror. Sees his own name spelled out on the smooth surface.

He blinks, turns around, finds empty, damp air. He turns back to the mirror, feels something cold on his right side as his name is underlined. As if someone is standing next to him, writing it in the fog that covers the mirror with their finger.

But it can’t be. Not who he thinks it is, anyways. No way he’d come from that far, no way he wouldn’t run out of energy or something before he would make it here.

Still, he can’t help but hope. _Shouldn’t hope, though._ “Jaskier?”

The cup on the sink topples onto the floor. “What the hell? What are you doing here? Why-“

_Sanatorium. Come back._

He chews on his lower lip, feels frustration well up in him again. _Keys being smashed down. The light dimming. Jaskier’s voice telling him to leave. The door slamming shut behind him._

“I told you I was never coming back,” he says through clenched teeth, his hands tightening around the edges of the sink.

_I’m sorry._

“I’m not.” He lifts his hand, wipes away the fog from the mirror. He half expects to see Jaskier standing next to him, but of course, he doesn’t. After a second or two, the cold spot on his right disappears and he suddenly feels alone. He knows Jaskier’s gone, probably back to the sanatorium.

He pushes the regret in his chest down and away, and heads to bed, way too early, but there are no activities to do between this and 11 pm, so he figures it doesn’t really matter, anyways. Nothing does anymore.

He spends the night lying on his back in his bed, staring up at the moonlit ceiling, listening to cars as they rush by, in the distance. He should probably clean up that frame Jaskier pushed off the mantel, and he adds that to his list of activities for the next day, somewhere between lunch and dinner. He doesn’t sleep, though, and has to watch the sun rise behind his window.

\---

The next day, he gets a mail that the renovation of the sanatorium will start in a few days, and he is asked to please oversee the construction. He remembers he promised to never come back, though, and he sends a mail back saying that he’ll have to think about it, and that he’ll recommend a different contractor if he can’t make it.

He doesn’t think about it, though. He sits on his couch, and looks at the blank tv screen. A vase falls off the mantelpiece. “Fuck off,” he says to the thin air. He feels alone again. _Keys being smashed down. The light dimming. Jaskier’s voice telling him to leave. Letters being written in a fog-covered mirror._

He cleans up the vase and the picture frame in the afternoon, before sitting on the couch again. Something falls down in the kitchen, the sound of glass shattering echoing through the empty apartment. He doesn’t feel alone. “If you’re sorry, you do have a funny way of showing it,” he says to his tv. He doesn’t find it funny. He feels alone again. _Keys being smashed down. The light dimming. Glass shattering on the floor. Letters being written in a fog-covered mirror._

He’s eating his microwave dinner in front of his laptop, a blank Word-document staring back at him. He should be writing down all the things that need to be done with the sanatorium to renovate it, for his colleague that’s probably going to be overseeing the construction, but he can’t find the words. He doesn’t feel alone. His keyboard starts typing of its own accord.

_Geralt. I’m sorry. Come back to the sanatorium._

He closes his laptop, and the lamps dim in the living room. He rolls his eyes and doesn’t pay any mind to it. He feels alone again. He finishes up his dinner and washes his fork, before putting it back in the drawer. The next thing on his list is a shower. _Keys being pushed down, spelling out words. The light in the living room dimming. Glass shattering on the floor. Letters being written in a fog-covered mirror._

His own name greets him again as he steps out of the shower. A cold spot on his right. He reaches his hand out to wipe the fog off the mirror, but it’s batted away by the cold, thin air, and numbness spreads across his skin. _I’m sorry. Let me explain,_ the mirror says. Geralt wipes it away. He feels alone again.

_Keys being pushed down, spelling out words. The light in the living room dimming. Glass shattering on the floor. Letters being written in a fog-covered mirror._

He sleeps well that night. The next morning, he finds himself in front of the sanatorium again.

\---

Walking inside is strange, but familiar, and he can’t deny how much he missed this place. Still, it’s eerily silent in the halls – no piano music, no sound of a plastic toy car rolling around on wooden floors, no squeaking of an old wheelchair. It’s almost like the building is holding its breath, waiting for the confrontation that’s inevitably about to come. He considers turning around and walking back out, he considers moving to a new state and hoping that Jaskier won’t be able to find him there.

Though, for some reason, he feels like Jaskier will always find him. And he realizes he doesn’t really mind – as a matter of fact, part of him _hopes_ that Jaskier always will find him, will always come back for him. Which is why he doesn’t turn around, why he doesn’t walk out and go home. Because he suddenly realizes that he will always come back for Jaskier, too.

He sighs, and sets out to the dining room. He doesn’t stop by Eddie’s room or Old Man Bergara’s room, he doesn’t have the guts to face their judgement just yet – not before he has Jaskier’s forgiveness, at least.

This time, there is no piano music to suddenly stop when he lays his hand on the door to the dining room. It creaks when it swings open, and he’s met with an empty room, as always. The old, white sheet on the piano moves slightly in a breeze that’s not there. The piano starts spelling again, before he’s even started walking towards him, and he realizes it’s a sentence that’s not really meant for his ears, when he starts to recognize the letters that belong to the keys being pressed down. He realizes what Jaskier’s saying, the same thing he said about a week ago – though Geralt didn’t know what it was back then.

He decides not to mention it for now – there are more pressing matters at hand, after all, and he slowly walks to the piano. He doesn’t sit down on the piano bench, but merely stares at the empty air above it. “Hi,” he whispers.

It’s quiet for a while, and he’s almost starting to think that Jaskier isn’t even here at all anymore, when the piano starts spelling again.

_I’ve missed you._

“I’ve missed you, too.”

_Can you sit down?_

He scoffs lightly, but does as he’s asked anyways. He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to push away the uncomfortable feeling in his spine. “Look, I’m- I’m sorry for what I said. I do care if you move on or not, I do care what happens with you if this building is demolished or renovated.” He swallows thickly. “I care about you,” he whispers.

_I care about you too. And I’m sorry for lashing out. You’re just trying to help._

He sighs again. “I just- I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to a renovation, to this place becoming a nursing home. I thought it would be nice to not have to watch this place fall apart around you, to see new people here.”

It’s quiet for a while, until: _Well, that’s the issue right there. Can I-_ It’s silent for a couple of seconds, as Jaskier seemingly hesitates, the light in the room slightly dimming. _Can I show you?_

Geralt frowns. “Show me?”

_My memories._

“I didn’t know you could do that, but… sure. Okay. You can show me, if that’s what you want.”

He feels something icy cold against his left arm, spreading numbness across his skin, before the cold spot starts travelling upwards, along his shoulder and neck – making him shiver – to the side of his head. He frowns. “Jaskier, what-“

Suddenly, he’s falling.

\---

 _He’s sitting in a Victorian-esque living room, people all around him – his_ family _all around him. Someone in one of the other rooms is playing Clair De Lune. A woman comes up to him, kisses him on the forehead. “Happy birthday, Julian,” she whispers. He smiles, but frowns immediately afterwards._

_“Can we- can we talk somewhere, mother?”_

_She looks concerned, but nods anyways, and he follows her into the deserted kitchen. “What is the matter, sweetheart?”_

_He fidgets with his fingers. “Well, I… I have been having these dreams, lately. Weird dreams, but… but I’m starting to think they are not dreams at all, mother.”_

_“Then what are they, Julian?”_

_He sighs. “I think they are memories.”_

_\---_

_He screams as two men drag him away from his parental house, to a cart with bars on its windows. “Mother, no! Please! Please, you can’t let them do this to me!” He shouts until his lungs start giving out, until he can taste copper on his tongue. He kicks until one man grabs his legs, rendering him immobile. They push him into the cart, closing and locking the door behind him._

_He immediately throws himself against the door, again and again, to no avail – it doesn’t budge. Instead, he hammers his fist against the wood, screaming for someone- anyone to help him, to let him go. He is not insane, for the love of God, they can’t do this to him. But no one comes to help, no one does anything but stare at him as he screams for his life, his freedom, and the cart starts moving, carrying him away from his family, his home. The last thing he sees before they round the corner, is his mother reaching up and wiping the tears from her cheeks._

_\---_

_“Julian, look at me.” He’s so tired, so incredibly tired. How long has it been? Days, weeks, centuries? He doesn’t know. He feels so heavy, and he struggles to lift his head up, the muscles in his neck weak and unwilling. He knows that if his wrists hadn’t been bound to the chair, his hands would’ve slid off its arms, and would’ve hung limply in the air._

_Finally, he manages to look up, and his head falls heavily against the back of the chair, as he looks at Dr. Murphy through heavy-lidded eyes. “Julian, stay with me.”_

_His face contorts in anger and fear, but he can’t not say it, even if he knows what the consequences of him doing so are. “My name is Jaskier,” he whispers._

_Dr. Murphy sighs, nods at the nurse that’s standing behind Jaskier’s chair. “Again, Adeline.”_

_He feels something cold being pressed against his temples, and he can barely brace himself before electricity runs through his body._

_\---_

_He’s walking along a dusty path, strumming his lute, the world wide open in front of him, the clopping of horse hooves in the dirt behind him. “Geralt,” he says cheerily, before he turns around, looking at the white-haired man on the brown horse, amber eyes glittering in the sun. “It’s been a while since we stayed at an inn.”_

_The Witcher rolls his eyes. “Hmm.”_

_“You don’t suppose we could stay at one tonight, perhaps?”_

_Geralt lets out a long, laborious breath. “We don’t have the coin.”_

_“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, putting on his best puppy dog eyes. “My back hurts from sleeping on the bedroll, and I can’t perform like this.”_

_The Witcher rolls his eyes again, but he can tell there’s a small smile tugging at those lips. “Fine.”_

\---

_He’s looking up at the moonlit ceiling, as he lays on his bed. He stopped struggling a long time ago. There’s no way to escape the straitjacket and the leather straps that have him tied to this bed – he was just tiring himself out. Though sleep still doesn’t come._

_Every inch of his body hurts – it always does after Dr. Murphy’s tried ‘treating’ him for hours – and he’s acutely aware of every single bruise on his skin that was given to him in his struggle to escape the straitjacket. He feels trapped. Alone. Scared._

_He tells himself it will be okay, as he looks up at the ceiling, tells himself he’s going to be alright. After all, he knows the delusions aren’t delusions, knows they’re memories and they’re real. He knows Geralt will come save him, soon._

_He’s been telling himself that for the past three years, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. Any moment now, his Witcher will barge into this room, will free him from his bonds, and will kill anyone that’s ever hurt Jaskier on their way out. He knows it._

_He knows it._

_He hopes it._

_Any moment now._

_\---_

_He’s sitting in the dining room, at the piano. He wants to play Clair De Lune, but his fingers hover over the keys, unsure what to do. After six years of treatment, he’s forgotten how to play the piano, he realizes. At least he now knows his name is Julian. Not Jaskier. Julian. He is Julian and he is twenty-four, and he comes from a very wealthy, very nice family who have been kind enough to give him the best treatment possible at the Woodward Sanatorium, even if they never visit. At least that’s what Dr. Murphy tells him. But Jask-_ Julian _believes it, because if he doesn’t, he’ll get hurt. So he believes it._

_And if he can’t play the piano anymore, that’s okay, because it’s a small price to play for sanity. At least that’s what Dr. Murphy tells him. He wonders if he can still play the lute, but he doesn’t voice his question. No lutes, no monsters, no Witcher. He can’t say anything about that. They’re delusions and they’re not real, and if he does mention them, he gets hurt._

_So he shuts up and sits at the piano, his hands hanging uselessly in the air._

_\---_

_“If life could give me one blessing it would be to take_ you _off my hands!”_

_\---_

_There’s a hand tight in his hair, as Dr. Murphy’s other one unbuckles his own belt. His knees hurt on the wooden floor. The pain in his scalp is uncomfortable. But if he just does this, he won’t be forced to wear a straitjacket tonight, and he won’t be tied down on the bed. A small price to pay for being able to move._

_After all, he now knows his Witcher won’t be there to save him, won’t barge into the room any moment now to free him from this place. Because there is no Witcher, there is no Jaskier the Bard, there are no memories. Only delusions, Julian, and Dr. Murphy, alone in his room._

_He believes it now, luckily, so there’s no more pain. Not as often, at least, and not as much. Sure, there is discomfort, but if he does as he’s told, if he’s obedient and good and if he behaves, then the discomfort only lasts a short while. And sure, sometimes after Dr. Murphy has visited his room at night, it hurts to sit the next day, or his voice is raw. But again, it’s a small price to pay._

_Dr. Murphy is finally done with unbuckling his belt, and Julian opens his mouth obediently._

_\---_

_The wind is whipping through his hair, tears forming in his eyes at the sudden cold. The nurses forgot to lock this window, and he can see the pavement next to the sanatorium, so very far below him._

_“Julian!” he hears Dr. Murphy’s voice behind him, and he half turns around, hands still holding on to the windowsill. The man is standing behind him, not close enough to grab him if he falls, though one of his hands is stretched out – those hands that have hurt him so many times. “Don’t do this, come down from the windowsill, we can fix whatever you’re going through.”_

_Fix it. Like how they fixed his delusions. With pain. Because he knows that’s how it’s going to end if he comes down from the windowsill – they will hurt him for his disobedience, and then they will hurt him some more to ‘fix him’._

_He’s tired. So very tired. One of the nurses read the bible to them last week, told them they would go to hell if they killed themselves._

_But no hell could possibly be worse than the Woodward Sanatorium._

_So he lets go of the windowsill. And falls._

_\---_

_He knows how to play the piano again. Though people no longer applaud him when he does that. Instead, they scream and run away. It doesn’t matter. Not a lot of people come here, anymore. The place is abandoned, falling apart around him. He doesn’t mind that, either. He wants nothing more than the place he suffered ten long years in to be destroyed, down to its very last brick._

_He does get lonely sometimes, though, even if it’s no lonelier than all the years he spent in here alive. On those days, he visits Old Man Bergara or little Eddie. They seem happy to see him, and he’s happy to see them, but it does get tiring after a while, and they tell him he always looks a little sad. He figures he’s allowed to be a little sad, after a decade of suffering when he was alive, and several more now that he’s dead, trapped in the place he resents most._

_He wants to move on. But he also doesn’t. He’s scared to go to hell, scared to suffer the same way he used to do. No. It’s better to stay, even if it’s in this bleak nothingness._

_He knows how to play the piano again. He knows his name is Jaskier. He knows his memories are not delusions. He knows his Witcher can walk through the door any moment now._

_Any moment now._

_He’s playing Clair De Lune again. It’s not the only song he knows, but it reminds him of that last day, on his eighteenth birthday, with his family. Before his mother betrayed him. Before he was brought to the Woodward Sanatorium. Before he suffered for a decade. Before he jumped out of that window. Before he died._

_The other songs, he doesn’t forget, but the more he plays Clair De Lune, the more they become buried in the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter, really._

_He stops playing when the door to the old, decrepit dining room opens, and a familiar-looking man with white hair and blazing, amber eyes walks in. His Witcher. He smiles. He knew it would be any moment now._

_\---_

Geralt gasps for breath, chest heaving as he finds himself back on the piano bench, forehead against the piano, hands grabbing at its edges for support. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to fight the nausea at the back of his throat, the lightness in his head. His left arm feels numb, and he figures Jaskier’s got his hand there.

He understands, now. He understands why Jaskier would rather see this place demolished instead of renovated. He understands why he doesn’t want it turned into a nursing home – because he’s been treated so horribly by the people that were supposed to care for him, and he doesn’t want anyone else to go through that. But it’s been so long, so many years since the Woodward Sanatorium closed, and Jaskier doesn’t know that that’s no longer how it’s supposed to go, that the people that care for others do exactly that – care for others. Geralt doesn’t blame him for not knowing. He also understands, now, the sentence that Jaskier typed out this morning, the same one he typed out a week or so ago, the one not meant for Geralt’s ears.

_I’ve loved you for a hundred years._

Slowly, he pushes himself upright, catching his breath, though the numbness on his arm doesn’t disappear. Instead, it moves down, laying atop his hand.

 _Are you alright?_ the piano asks.

He nods, though a little shakily. He doesn’t really know what to say – _thanking_ Jaskier for showing him all these memories seems a little… misplaced. Instead, he says: “I understand, now.”

The piano remains silent, and he takes that as a sign to continue. “But you also need to understand something, Jaskier. Times have changed. It’s been over a hundred years since you’ve died, things have _changed._ There are no more asylums, the doctors and nurses no longer go unchecked. Hell, Murphy was convicted in the 1950’s for what he did in this sanatorium… for what he did to you and all others like you. He died in prison.” The sunlight that shines through the tall windows suddenly becomes a bit brighter. “Doctors and nurses actually care for people, and they do it as well as they can. No more abuse, Jaskier. No more suffering. I need you to understand that.”

It’s quiet for a while, and he gives Jaskier time to process what he’s said, to let it sink in.

_No more suffering. You promise?_

He nods. “I promise. And if the nurses and doctors do end up like Murphy, well… you’ll be here to stop it, won’t you?” he whispers.

The hand on his own moves up again, cupping his cheek – he lets the numbness seep into his skin, closes his eyes and revels in the cold. He recognizes the note when Jaskier presses down the _‘thank you’-_ key.

He grins, opens his eyes again, looks to his side into thin air. “Anything for you,” he whispers.

It’s silent for a few seconds, until: _May I kiss you?_

He smiles. “I might die if you don’t.”

 _Rude._ It holds no malice, though, and the light that shines through the window is so bright it almost hurts his eyes.

The cold spot on his cheek remains, but there’s a new one, right on his lips. He closes his eyes, lets the numbness spread over his entire face, while his chest is on fire. After a few seconds, it’s over, and he opens his eyes as warmth seeps into his skin again, grinning at the thin air.

 _I’ve loved you for a hundred years,_ the piano says.

Geralt smiles again, recalls Jaskier’s memories that now reside in his own mind. “Certainly fucking feels like it,” he whispers.

\---

A few hours later, he leaves the dining room again, promises Jaskier he will be back first thing in the morning. He walks to the door that leads to the courtyard. There is one thing that needs to be done, still, before the renovations can start. It’s quiet in the courtyard, though he knows he’s not alone.

“Mr. Woodward?”

A shove against his chest. “Go away,” whispered into his ear.

He remembers what Jaskier told him, seemingly years ago, though it can’t be more than a week or so. “Sir, you’re dead. You’re a ghost.”

The light dims in the courtyard. “Ghosts aren’t real.” A whisper carried on a breeze that seems to come from nowhere.

He shrugs, then pulls out his phone. “Ever seen anything like this before?”

Silence, though the wind calms down a bit.

He continues “That’s because you’ve been dead for nearly a hundred years. You’re a ghost, haunting this place.”

“ _Ghosts aren’t real,_ ” hissed right into his ear, and he turns his head, only meeting empty air. The wind dies down. The sunlight is back to normal. He feels alone.

He frowns, walking out of the courtyard, back to the dining room. “Jaskier? I just spoke to Mr. Woodward and he suddenly seems… awfully quiet.”

_He’s gone._

“What?”

_He moved on. He’s gone. What did you do?_

He shrugs. “I showed him my phone and told him he’s dead and a ghost. He said ghosts aren’t real and disappeared.”

Two high notes. A laugh. _That’ll do it._

He smiles, as well. “Guess we don’t have to worry about him, anymore. See you tomorrow, Jask.”

_See you tomorrow, Geralt._

He walks out of the sanatorium feeling lighter than he’s ever done before.

\---

That evening, he writes down all the things that need to be done with the sanatorium to renovate it and turn it into a nursing home. He’s not going to be the contractor for this, but he’s asking a coworker he trusts to do take on the project. He will visit the place every day, of course, but he no longer wants any part in the work needed to renovate it. It’s hard to word it to himself, but it feels like that part of his life is over, and that he needs to move on to something new.

So he writes down what needs to be done, which includes a few special requests, like keeping the wooden floors, and repainting the mural in the dining room. At the end of his list, he adds in three things that aren’t really special requests, but more necessary, yet unusual things.

 _Keep the wheelchair in the room on the second floor in the right wing. Keep the toy cars in the room in the left wing, same floor. Keep the grand piano in the dining room._ There’s one more request at the very end he hopes she’ll honour.

He rereads everything, satisfied with his work, before sending the file to his coworker Yennefer, giving the project away. He trusts her with this, he knows she’ll do right by the sanatorium. He doesn’t feel guilty for handing the project over – after all, he’s done enough, he figures. He did the first assessment, he stopped the building from being demolished, he got it on the National Register of Historic Places, and he secured the funding needed. It’s time to let go, now.

He’s not sure how he’s going to excuse dropping by every day to see Jaskier, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it, he figures.

He goes to bed that night with warmth in his chest. _Piano keys being pressed down. Letters written in a fog-covered mirror. The light in the dining room becoming brighter. A cold spot against his lips._ He doesn’t sleep, but he doesn’t mind.

\---

The next day, there are gardeners outside, working through the thick bushes and vines that have crawled up and into the walls of the sanatorium, and Geralt greets them before heading inside. The project’s officially started, now, and he’s looking forward to seeing what will become of the building.

He spends a good part of the morning playing with Eddie in his room, who seems elated to see him. After that, he goes to visit Old Man Bergara, talks to him a bit about what’s going to happen, and that he hopes Yennefer will take his advice and not remove the chair, and that he’s going to do everything in his power to stop her from doing that if she decides otherwise. Old Man Bergara doesn’t reply, obviously, but the light in the room shines a little brighter.

Afterwards, he goes to see Jaskier. He tells him that he’s decided to give the project away, that it’s no longer in his hands, but he’ll come by every day, still, to make sure everything goes the way it’s supposed to go, and to see Jaskier and the other ghosts.

After he’s done telling his story, he shrugs. “I hope you don’t mind that I did that.”

He imagines Jaskier smiling when the piano spells out: _Of course I don’t mind. As long as you don’t forget about me._

Geralt smiles. “I’ll never forget about you, Jaskier. Ever.” Then, more quietly: “I love you too much for that.”

The sun shines a bit brighter in the room. They sit there for a while, and eventually Jaskier starts playing again, though this time not _Clair De Lune._ He recognizes the melody as that _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher-_ song Jaskier told him about before and he laughs softly.

He frowns, though, when his phone vibrates. It’s a mail from Yennefer, telling him she’ll gladly take the project, and that, though some of them quite strange, she’ll do her best to fulfill his requests. She also says that they’re going to start construction tomorrow. He smiles at that. He suddenly remembers he forgot to tell her about the little communal area on the top floor, and sends her a mail about that.

She replies pretty quickly to ask him if it’s possible to break out the walls of multiple rooms to make the space even bigger. He replies to tell her he’ll check it out.

He stands up from the piano bench, pocketing his phone. Jaskier stops playing, and he imagines he’s looking at Geralt expectantly. “Look,” he says, “there’s something I need to check out on the top floor real quick, but I’ll be back as soon as possible, okay?”

_Okay._

He smiles at the empty air one last time, before heading out of the dining room, taking the nearest stairs to the top floor. He walks to the front of the building, looking out of the windows at the street outside for a few seconds. He can see a truck full of branches and leaves, and he smiles, figuring that the front garden of the sanatorium must be looking quite different now, though he can’t see down at that angle from this high. In the distance, _Clair De Lune_ starts playing.

He smiles, turning around again. He figures that, to make the communal area large enough to accommodate at least a percentage of the people that will be living here soon, at least three rooms will need to be broken open. Maybe even four, but he’ll have to check that out and leave the decision to Yennefer. For now, he heads to the third room in the left wing of the sanatorium.

He opens the door and steps inside. He barely has time to register that this room looks like all the other rooms here, with a large window and wooden floors, before he hears a loud sound above him, almost like a tree falling, and everything goes to black.

\---

He stands in the hall, watching as several of the gardeners from outside come rushing up the stairs, watching as they walk past him, watching as they dig through the rubble that the room has become, watching as they pull his lifeless body from underneath the rubbish, watches as they call the ambulance and try to resuscitate him. He knows it’s too late. After all, he’s standing right here, no longer connected to his own body. Does that mean he’s a ghost, now? He supposes so.

He feels a bit tired, and can almost feel his energy leaking away as he stands there, watching their fruitless attempts at bringing him back to life. He doesn’t belong here, he knows. He’s not bound to this hallway, that particular room.

He closes his eyes. Somehow, he knows he’s bound to the dining room, feels the tether between him and that room. Except there are two tethers. One still and immobile and certain, the other moving around a bit, though it ends in the dining room as well. Somehow, he knows that it’s Jaskier on the other end of the second tether. He’s bound to the dining room. He’s bound to his love.

He wonders if he’ll need to walk down the stairs to get there, or if he can just… Teleport doesn’t seem to be the right word, but he decides it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes and finds himself in the dining room.

And there he is, sitting behind the piano, looking straight at him with big blue eyes, his brown hair a little bit tousled, mouth slightly agape. Jaskier. He’s beautiful.

Jaskier stands up abruptly, and the piano bench topples, before he starts running towards Geralt, jumping into his arms. He’s surprised by the force of the impact – he almost expected Jaskier to go straight through him, even – but when he holds his love up, he notices Jaskier doesn’t weigh a thing. Though that realization is quickly replaced by the feeling of Jaskier’s soft lips on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jaw, his hair, and he smiles, as he holds his love close.

Eventually, Jaskier stops, and leans their foreheads against each other. Geralt notices there’s no breath intertwining between them. He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing, and tries it out. He feels air flowing in and out of his lungs, but it’s uncomfortable, clearly not supposed to be there, and it gives him none of the satisfaction that breathing used to give him.

“What happened?” Jaskier whispers to him, cradling his face in surprisingly warm hands.

Geralt shrugs. “I think I just died.” He hears sirens in the distance. “One of the rooms collapsed on top of me.”

Jaskier sighs, though Geralt feels no air on his face. “The top floor?” Geralt nods. “Didn’t you learn anything the first time you nearly got killed there?”

He smiles, suddenly remembering that, yes, he did almost die on that floor, when the corner room collapsed, a few weeks ago – he remembers that Jaskier had pushed him away and saved his life that day. He shrugs. “I don’t mind being dead. At least I’ve got you, now.”

Jaskier scoffs. “You already had me.”

“Not like this,” Geralt whispers, and presses their lips together. In the distance, he can hear the sirens stopping right outside the sanatorium, can hear the heavy, white-painted front doors open, can hear the EMT’s rushing up the stairs to the top floor, but he doesn’t care. All his senses are occupied with Jaskier, finally in his arms, and though he knows he’s just been pronounced dead, he’s never been happier.

\---

Yennefer renovates the sanatorium exactly according to his visions, and soon, he finds himself walking through the white-painted halls hand in hand with his love, the oak floors shining, clean and polished, beneath his feet. The courtyard is no longer overgrown, and he can now see the stone statues that had been buried beneath leaves and branches. There’s no longer a breeze blowing through the halls, now that all the windows have been repaired, and he can see that every room is comfortable – more comfortable than they used to be, he knows from Jaskier’s memory. Not the kind of room someone would get strapped down on the bed in.

Before long, they return to the dining room, of course – they can’t stay away too long, their energy seeping away from them ever more, the longer they spend in the halls. He had been right, the first time he had walked into the dining room, months ago: now that it’s renovated, it’s truly a sight to behold. The windows are clean and fixed, and give a splendid view of the no longer overgrown gardens of the sanatorium-turned-nursing-home, sprawling out behind the building.

The mural has been renovated as well, and depicts a large, luxurious entry hall, just like it did so many years ago. The sheets have been removed from the furniture and the chairs and tables have been repolished. The sheet that was laying over the piano is gone too, and the instrument has been cleaned – the letters wiped away with rubbing alcohol, their secret conversations lost to time.

It doesn’t matter. They don’t need the piano to talk anymore.

Today’s the grand opening of the nursing home, and this afternoon, the first residents will move in. He knows little Eddie is excited to have someone to play with, since Geralt can no longer spend more than half an hour outside the dining room. Old Man Bergara is looking forward to having someone to play cards or chess with. Geralt wishes he could thank Yennefer for leaving the toy cars in Eddie’s room, for cleaning up Old Man Bergara’s chair, and leaving it in his room as well.

She’s standing in front of the piano, now, giving her grand opening speech to half the town and several cameras. She looks up when he and Jaskier walk into the room, and the sunlight shining through the tall windows brightens. She smiles, for a second, and he gets the feeling that even if he can’t tell her how grateful he is, she knows.

She finishes up the speech, thanking the people who donated, and thanking Geralt for his efforts. She says that, even if he’s not around today to see what this place has become, he would be very proud of it. He smiles. He is. He’s also glad to hear she honored his last request, though he finds out she also added onto it, when she proposes a toast to the old Woodward Sanatorium – now the Pankratz-Rivia Nursing Home.

He feels Jaskier’s hand tighten in his, and he smiles at his love, who smiles back, the light in the room becoming a little bit brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright first things first, I'm on tumblr @king-finnigan
> 
> Secondly, I based two characters on Ryan Bergara and Shane Madej from buzzfeed unsolved, because bfu is my fav show (shared first place with the Witcher, lmao). Seriously, though, if you're ever going to watch a ghost show, bfu is the place to be. (and yes, I did draw some inspiration from the Waverly Hills Sanatorium ep. It's a very good ep. Don't sue me, buzzfeed)
> 
> Again, please do leave a comment and tell me what you thought of this fic!! Thank you!


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